The next morning, drained and red-eyed, I drove to a modest inn near downtown Asheville. It smelled of roasted coffee and old wooden floors. Nothing extravagant—just safe.
“One night?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
He slid the payment terminal toward me. My hands trembled as I inserted the metal card.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then his expression changed.
“Ma’am… just a moment.”
He picked up a phone behind the counter. My heart raced.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said carefully. “The system flagged your card.”
He disappeared into a back office. Every second stretched painfully. I was certain I had misunderstood my father’s words, that this was some terrible mistake.
When he returned, his face was pale.
“Someone is coming to speak with you.”
“Who?” I asked.
The lobby doors opened before he could answer. A tall man in a navy suit stepped inside, calm and purposeful. He walked directly toward me.
“Mrs. Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
He showed me identification.
“My name is Michael Carter. I need to speak with you privately.”
My knees felt weak.
In a quiet office behind the lobby, he placed the black card on the table between us.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.